


A Champion's Tale

by solemnsuns



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 16:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3615831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solemnsuns/pseuds/solemnsuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unabridged account of Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and Scion of the Amell Line, featuring her rise to power and those who accompanied her along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Champion's Tale

 Carver woke with a start.

Sweat glued his shirt tightly to his chest while the coverlet hopelessly dangled off one corner of the bed and pooled onto the floor.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to ease the shaking of his hands and forget the dream.

In his mind’s eye, they were still running. Beth, Mother, Marian, even the damned dog, attempting to hide from something. The Templars, probably. They wouldn’t be able to hold out for much longer, he could feel it in his bones.  Their pursuers were slowly gaining on them all the while. And then there was Beth rushing forward to—

 _Enough of that._ He shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts, drawing wet palms across the mattress. He stood up carefully to avoid smacking his head on the low beam that ran overhead and gingerly spread the coverlet back over the bed to sink beneath its warmth.  Outside his window, the sun was just beginning to tint the sky. Still much too early for him to rise.

Sleeping was out of the question, but if he were quiet enough no one would think him awake. Yet even then, his thoughts soon began to drift behind closed eyes and warm covers.

Lothering was a provincial town, but it was by no means small. It held acres of good farmland and a hearty populace of farmers. The local chantry attracted parishioners from outlying villages, the center markets bustled on holy days, and the town was known for its All Soul’s Day play where an especially rendered caricature of Andraste was annually burned. For Southern Ferelden, it acted as a relative cultural hub and neighbor to the famed Redcliffe Arling. For Carver Hawke, it was the least exciting village he had ever lived near.

It was a prison built of open land. The long ruined Imperial Highway marked his walls and his mother served dutifully as a warden.

He wanted adventure. Too old to be sustained by tales of glorious kings of old, he was ready to become the hero. Be the son his father had wanted, rather than just the lone blade in a hidden house of mages.

His chance seemed to have come as soon as the rumors started.

One day, after the Chant, a group of boys huddled by the doors to discuss a new troop movement. Whispers and sidelong glances bouncing between them. _Orlais?_ He had thought first. After all, there were several nasty rumors surrounding the younge King and the Orlesian Empress. But these boys were farmhands, who knew little of whispered Denerim intrigue.

They spoke of darkspawn, creatures known only out of children’s tales, appearing at the edge of the Korcari Wilds. The force apparently large enough for Cailan to begin to amass an army. Surely His Majesty would require new troops to push back the gruesome monsters, they all believed.

In his imagination, he would be the glorious knight able to help turn the tide of the battle, defeating the blighted creatures like the grey wardens of a bygone age. If he was lucky, he might even meet a Chasind woman to take as his bride like some Avvar chieftain. That would show Thomas and certainly end his teasing.

He dreamed of bringing a wilding woman back with him, all teeth and claws. Savagery against domesticity. His bride would certainly fascinate Bethany, who held a secret penchant for the reclusive Chasind. It was the swirling paints they decorated themselves with that drew her in, she confided to him one night after a clansmen had come to the market place to trade.

Marian would probably convince the woman to murder him in his sleep, damn her.

The thought quickly caused him to abandon the idea.  No use fantasizing about something that would never happen, he told himself. Even if he managed to meet a recruiter, there was no way he would be able to leave for Ostagar. Too much was at stake; his sisters too prime a target. Who would watch them if he left? The dog?

Already the house was beginning to move around him. He could hear the soft voices of Beth and his mother as they prepared for the day. The light clanks of bowls and tools hit the table and echoed around him as they set up to dye cloth. 

No boots were stomping loudly across the floor, so he could only assume Marian was off running with the dog. Rolling onto his side, he pushed the covers away, hand carding through his hair.

“Time to get going” he muttered.

* * *

Marian met him at the door, cheeks already flushed from exertion. She stood proudly, one arm braced against her hip and the other clenching a pitchfork like a staff. The dog nosed around her feet, sniffing at some long-gone creature’s trail. Carver decided quite quickly he didn’t like her look, the gleam in her eye too punctuated to mean anything good.

“We’re helping the Russettes today, grab your stuff.”

“Why?” He groaned. “Don’t they have farmhands already?”

She fixed him with a glare, “Alard left yesterday and being one good hand short they offered us the work.” He snorted at her response, _of course, give their poor neighbors the charity work_.

Marian stepped into the house, one hand reaching up to punch his shoulder. “We need the money, alright? So, get off whatever horse you’re on and get your shit.”

“Language!” A voice broke out and his sister quickly twisted around, lips quirking into a smile to see Bethany approach them. His twin’s hands were already stained with dye, turning her fingertips bright purple.

“Thought you were Mother for a moment.” She gestured towards her sister’s hands, “Get into the berry patch, Beth?” The dog barked at that and abandoned its sniffing to nose and lick at her hands, as if to clean them of any remaining sweetness. She pushed him away, laughing.

“No, Geralt. None for you today.” The hound huffed and ambled over to the kitchen. Bethany leaned close, voice dropping into a low whisper. “I overheard about the farm work, if you need an extra hand I—”

Marian quickly interrupted, “Won’t be necessary. Carver and I can handle it, right Carve?” She looked to him expectantly, one eyebrow raised. _Damn her._

“You stay here. We can handle it.” His twin tutted at that and reached up to an errant strand of hair behind his ear, “Alright, brother. But if something happens, I’ll be more than happy to help.” He pulled her hand away and self-consciously reached up to re-smooth his part a few times.

“We’ll be fine, Beth. It’s just a bit of field work,” Marian interjected. “Now c’mon Carve, we need to get going.”

_Damn Orlesian farmers and their disappearing farmhands._

He found his gloves on the kitchen table. Grabbing them with one hand, he muttered a quick good morning to his mother and hustled out the door after his sister. Curse his luck. 

* * *

 

The Russettes were never town favorites amongst Lothering’s populace. A family of farmers that had remained after the Orlesian War, they kept mostly to themselves, keenly aware the stigma their name held for the southern village.

It was their yearly harvest that got them into Lothering’s good graces. Farmhands were well compensated and their crops tended to be of fine quality. It was honest, hard work, which many Fereldens could respect and turn a blind eye towards the Russettes’ unfavorable heritage. When asked why they stayed, the response was simple: “the land is good, why leave?”

Carver, however, disliked them from the moment they had met. It was always to Marian they told of needing work. Charity work, he called it. And he hated it on the mere principle that it was so commonly directed towards his family. “Oh those poor Hawke children.” “Look at their mother, all alone and working so hard.” “Not a copper to their name, blessed souls.” It took all his will not to shout. It wasn’t his fault that they were forced to drop everything and change villages every other year. It wasn’t him that needed to remain poor and away from prying eyes. And it certainly wasn’t him that wanted to take charity work meant to help a family others knew nothing about.

Marian refused to make the distinction and any conversation he had with his sister only led to a constant argument.

“It’s gold, Carver, and we desperately need it.”

“So, what? We should sell ourselves out?” He gestured wildly. “I’m not planning on living as a farmhand for the rest of my life.”

“Maker! Neither am I, but that doesn’t change a damn thing.” She glared at him then, “So find a way to handle it and get to work. You’re not a child anymore.”

“It’s charity and you know it.” He tried not to shout, but each word seemed to get louder and louder, bubbling out from some deep well inside.

“What do you want me to do about it? Hm, Carver?” Her voice rose with his, “Sorry Mum, so sorry Beth, but we can’t eat this week!”

“No! That’s not what I’m saying—“

“Then please, Carver! Let me know what you’re trying to get at! We need the money. We need to eat. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Of course there isn’t if we keep on taking charity!”

“Blessed Andraste!” She hissed further profanities under her breath and went back to work, ignoring him and all attempts he made to argue with her more.

The discussion had not come up again.

 In the fields, with the sun beating down upon both their heads, he was very tempted to try again. Hay bales were difficult enough to deal with on a normal day, let alone when it was sweltering. _Charity work, my arse. Slavery is more like it._ He tipped back the wineskin, already expecting its contents to have evaporated and suddenly understood Alard’s hasty depature. He wouldn’t blame the man for trying to escape the heat. He propped himself up on the cart bed, leaning back on a bale, and idly pulled his pitchfork into twisting configurations.

“You could help, you know.” Marian muttered next to him with another thrust into a bale of hay and a slow walk to the cart.

“Oh, I know,” he noted, throwing the fork into a complicated loop. Imagining a fearsome opponent in front of him, he lunged into a riposte.

A wicked grin spread across his face and he quickly glanced at his sister. Marian was turned, her back to him, and lifting another bale. He stood up, braced himself, and jabbed at a nearby hay stack. “Die, foe.”

The fork tongs pierced the binding around the bale, snapping it and releasing its bloated contents. His grin quickly dropped as the dog barked and rushed to roll in the spreading hay.

“Damn it, Carver,” Marian came upon behind him, one hand reaching up to wipe the sweat of her brow. “I’m not fixing that.”

“I didn’t meant to do it,” he mumbled, taking one step back at the glare she shot him. Huffing, he bent at the knee and shoved the beast away. Ignoring its indignant huff, _too smart for its own good,_ he began to refasten the thin twine around the bale. His sister grumbled softly to herself and roughly stabbed another bale to take to the cart.

* * *

 

The wooden bed creaked under the added weight and she groaned from the exterion, grabbing the wineskin dangling from the side.  Its contents sloshed wetly as she lifted it up and took a pull.

Only a simple herbed drink, but the taste was enough to take away some of her exhaustion. Glancing around to see they were relatively alone, she pulled fade-ice around the leather, chilling it further. Marian sighed and pressed a hand to her head, only to wince at the hot, burning skin she found there. She checked her brother and found him already splotched red around his shoulders and nose. She was sure her own body fared no better.

They were sure to be out in the fields for the rest of the day. Hopefully, Bethany would feel up to a few healing spells. She wouldn’t have the strength to bend into the fade on their return and didn’t want feel the week-long burn that would remain if left untreated.

“Marian, do you recognize them?” There was a sense of urgency in his voice and she snapped to attention. Turning, she followed her brother’s gaze and, for a moment, her heart leapt in her chest.

Armored men approached the cottage where her mother and sister dwelt within. Sunlight glinted off their chest pieces, blinding her for a moment. _Templars?_

Suppressing the urge to draw out her magic, she searched for the heraldry marking the soldiers. Soon they pulled into focus and with relief she saw no flaming sword of Andraste, but rather the roaring lion upon their chests. “King’s men,” she murmured, turning to throw her fork into the cart.  _A rather sad lot of King’s men_ , she thought to herself. Even from their distance, she could see the soldiers were ill suited to their march. Their footfalls dragged and faces seemed a bit too lean. “We should head back to the house, in case there’s trouble. The Russettes will understand.”      

Carver looked about anxiously, clutching his pitchfork tighter, “Do you think they’re recruiting?” He swung the fixed bale onto the cart and looked back at the soldiers, hope in his eyes.

Hauling herself into the narrow seat at the front of the cart, she grabbed the reins for the mule. Carver rocked into the seat next to her, gaze still on the coming soldiers.  Marian looked over her brother and hummed an indifferent response. “Maybe they’re just stopping by on their way to Ostagar?”

Secretly, she hoped her words were true. Carver was too eager to join the fight against the rumored darkspawn hoard and recruitment officers would only exacerbate the situation. Leandra already had enough trouble trying to keep the boy at home.

He shook his head, “They wouldn’t stop this far out, and look” he pointed to the standard one soldier bore, “they’re sent from King Cailan directly. Must be a royal decree.”

“Maybe they’re here to say what a royal pain in the arse you are,” she jabbed at him with her elbow. Carver quickly pushed back, one hand still holding his pitchfork.

“At least I’m not a royal bitch,” he mumbled under his breath, half-expecting the quick punch to the shoulder that shortly came.  Marian snapped the reigns, causing the mule to bray as the cart rolled forward.

“Well let’s go see what the King has to say, shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll attempt to stay as close to canon as possible, so get excited for predictable story-telling!  
> What's next? Wait and find out!


End file.
